


When the Hurley-Burley's Done

by hauntedlittledoll



Series: Tumblr Fic War [5]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Random Literary References for the Win, Shakespeare is My Second Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2013-06-08
Packaged: 2017-12-14 08:03:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hauntedlittledoll/pseuds/hauntedlittledoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Confusedantswithstolenjewelry's Prompt:  "How about Tim never finds Bruce after his disappearance, Dick dies several years later and Damian becomes Batman, and Tim drops in for a visit to talk with him about it?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the Hurley-Burley's Done

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from William Shakespeare's "Macbeth."
> 
> "Supernatural" references intended.

“Twenty-four,” Batman said simply as he drove.

“ _Thirty-three_ ,” Robin returned sharply.

“Tt, a gap is to be expected when you are seven years my senior,” Damian issued snidely.  “You were my guardian after all.”

For less than a year; it was a _technicality_ and Tim still hasn’t forgiven Dick, may he rest in peace.

Damian continued undeterred: “Nonetheless, I appear to be catching up as you grow sloppy in your old age.”

“Thirty is hardly ancient,” Tim snapped.  “Your father was almost forty.”

“And my predecessor only made it to thirty-two.  Without my repeated intervention, _you_ would not have seen twenty-five.”  Damian hummed a note of annoyance as Professor Pyg made himself known at St. James’ in Midtown.  It’s only a few moments by flying Batmobile.  “Is it too much to hope for the long overdue retirement of those tights?”

“I haven’t worn tights since I was a kid.  This is a survival suit, thank you,” Tim corrected stiffly as he removed a set of re-breathers from his utility belt.  “Eject in five-four-three-two-one.”

Pyg’s dollotrons seemed to get uglier every year.  Damian suspected the man’s eyesight was failing as any last vestige of their toy-like appearance had disappeared by the time Damian took the cowl.

He was only seventeen at the time.

“You were never supposed to be Batman,” Tim announced, landing on one opponent and sweeping his bo staff up into the chin of another.

Damian obligingly caught the one looming behind his partner and threw him at Professor Pyg.  It fell short, being poorly balanced and also prone to squirming, but it knocked over three of its brethren in the rapid evacuation of Robin’s immediate presence.  “Wasn’t Robin supposed to be temporary?” he returned, punching a dollotron.  “Until someone better came along?”

Damian never fought back with the truth—that if Tim hadn’t refused the mantle, the teenager in his care wouldn’t have needed to put it on.

“Guess I’m still waiting for that someone better,” Tim quirked an odd sort of smile and delivered a solid kick to a more persistent dollotron.  It went down, broken and curled in on itself.  Damian used the felled creature as a stepping stone for further height advantage and sent a batarang Tim’s way.

Tim ducked.  A dollotron fell beyond.

“Uncalled for, you ungrateful leech,” Damian sneered, as they ended up back-to-back in the middle of the swarm.  They were the perfect team despite how they hated each other—Dick made sure of that.

He’d gone a little crazy at the end.  Someone had given the previous Batman a look into the future, and Dick responded with obsessive drills, enforced family bonding, and a religious devotion to improving Damian and Tim’s teamwork.

Tim would have liked the warning that the future that their older brother saw was a future without Dick Grayson.  Or Alfred.  Or Stephanie.  Or Jason.  Or Cass.

Something beside an empty cowl, custody of the most obstinate teenager in existence, and a letter under his pillow on the day that Dick never woke up.

He hadn’t reacted well.  For a long time, Damian had cared for him … reluctantly, angrily, _stubbornly_ … instead of the other way around.

Now they were stuck with each other.

Damian knocked out the last underling, and bowed with mock graciousness as Professor Pyg started his routine.  Trying to ignore the throb of an imminent migraine, Tim sprayed the aging villain with suppression foam.  For good measure, he covered the villain’s mouth to keep him from continuing to squeal.  Kindness was no longer the realm of Robin—not Tim’s Robin with the color distinction already fallen away long before Damian ever graduated from the _R_.

“Tt—the police have arrived,” Batman frowned.  “Late as always; I shall leave you to make nice with Gordon.  She likes you better.”

Translation: Babs hadn’t shot Robin yet.

“I want a burger when I get back,” Tim responded drily, already moving to obey.

“And yet you will be eating actual food instead,” Damian called over his shoulder as he returned to the Batmobile.  “Chicken parmesan, asparagus, and baked potato … I know your diet, idiot, and I will know if you try to cheat.”

So much for stopping off at the twenty-four hour diner on his way back; Tim suspected the owner’s wife was the snitch.  She had shifty eyes.

“Jerk,” he muttered lowly, but Damian’s hearing was nigh-supernatural.

“Bitch.”


End file.
